157. A Wreath.

WREATHED garland of deferved praise,

Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my ways,
My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live; for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who art more far above deceit,
Than deceit seems above fimplicity.

Give me fimplicity, that I

may live,

So live and like, that I may know thy ways,

Know them and practise them: then fhall I give For this poor wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

158. Death.

EATH, thou waft once an uncouth hideous
Nothing but bones,

The fad effect of fadder groans:

[thing,

Thy mouth was open, but thou couldft not fing.

For we confidered thee as at some fix

Or ten years hence,

After the lofs of life and fenfe,

Flesh being turn'd to duft, and bones to sticks.

We look'd on this fide of thee, shooting short;

Where we did find

The shells of fledge fouls left behind,

Dry duft, which sheds no tears, but

may extort.

But fince our Saviour's death did put fome blood Into thy face :

Thou art grown fair and full of grace,

Much in request, much fought for, as a good.

For we do now behold thee gay and glad,
As at doomsday;

When fouls fhall wear their new array, And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad.

Therefore we can go die as fleep, and trust
Half that we have

Unto an honeft faithful grave;
Making our pillars either down, or duft.

159. Doomsday.

OME away,

Make no delay.

Summon all the duft to rife,

Till it ftir, and rub the eyes;

While this member jogs the other,

Each one whispering, Live you, Brother?

Come away,

Make this the day.

Duft, alas, no music feels,

But thy trumpet: then it kneels,
As peculiar notes and strains
Cure Tarantula's raging pains.

Come away,
O make no stay!

Let the graves make their confeffion,
Left at length they plead poffeffion :
Flesh's ftubbornness may have
Read that leffon to the grave.

Come away,

Thy flock doth stray.

Some to the winds their body lend,
And in them may drown a friend :
Some in noisome vapours grow
To a plague and public woe.

Come away,

Help our decay.

Man is out of order hurl'd,
Parcell'd out to all the world.
Lord, thy broken confort raise,
And the mufic fhall be praise.

When thou shalt call

For every man's peculiar book?

What others mean to do, I know not well;
Yet I hear tell,

That fome will turn thee to fome leaves therein
So void of fin,

That they in merit shall excel.

But I refolve, when thou fhalt call for mine,
That to decline,

And thrust a Teftament into thy hand :

Let that be scann'd.

No.

Thou Echo, thou art mortal, all men know.

Есно.

Wert thou not born among the trees and leaves?

Есно.

And are there any leaves, that still abide?

Есно.

Bide.

Leaves.

What leaves are they? impart the matter wholly.

Есно.

Are holy leaves the Echo then of bliss?

Есно.

Yes.

Then tell me, what is that supreme delight?

Есно.

Light.

Holy.

Light to the mind: what shall the will enjoy?

Есно.

Joy.

But are there cares and business with the pleasure?

Есно.

Leifure.

Light, joy, and leisure; but shall they perfever?

Есно.

Ever.

162. Love.

OVE bade me welcome : yet my foul drew
Guilty of duft and sin. [back,

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow flack
From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, fweetly questioning,

If I lack'd any thing.

A gueft, I answer'd, worthy to be here:

Love faid, You shall be he.